


Glitter

by antheiasilva



Series: Glitter [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Porn, First Time, Glitter, Jedi code ruins everything, M/M, Mutual Pining, Obi-Wan dressed as Curt Wild in Velvet Goldmine, Porn with Feelings, Qui-Gon Lives, can crack fic be serious?, if yes then this is a crack fic, if you've ever wanted to see Qui/Obi make out in a club, shameless plot device... cough... I mean under cover mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: An undercover mission takes an unexpected turn.--“You’re going to blow our cover,” Obi-Wan whispers against his ear, his voice harsh to pierce through the thump, thump, thump of the music.Qui-Gon merely raises his eyebrow in response. The bass is far too loud, and he is far, far too old for this.





	Glitter

**Author's Note:**

> SO MANY THANKS!
> 
> This fic would not have seen the light of day without the encouragement and enthusiasm, keen eyes, sound ears, insight and critical feedback of Tohje, Jessebee, nauticilious and hubblegleeflower.
> 
> I'm endlessly grateful.
> 
> All awkward wordings, typos and mistakes are my own.
> 
> This is my first Qui/Obi sex scene so comments and feedback are very much appreciated.

“You’re going to blow our cover,” Obi-Wan whispers against his ear, his voice harsh to pierce through the thump, thump, thump of the music.

Qui-Gon merely raises his eyebrow in response. The bass is far too loud, and he is far, far too old for this. 

“You’re stiff as a protocol droid, for fuck’s sake. _Move_,” Obi-Wan hisses, his breath hot and reminiscent of chadian rum. 

Qui-Gon shuffles his feet. He _is_ moving. It’s not as if there’s anywhere to move anyway. The dance floor is crammed and their bait and informant, Prince Xrinu, is a few bodies away, grinding up against a violet Twi’lek man in a mesh shirt.

There has to be an easier way to prove Xev Xrexus’ involvement with the Pyke Syndicate’s spice operation.

Obi-Wan gives him a look that says, ‘We’ve talked about this, no there isn’t.’ Then he grins, his teeth bright in the black light. His eyes shine. He’s shaved the beard he’s had since his knighting half a decade ago and his hair is gelled upright. He is moving — _dancing_— with an ease and energy that makes Qui-Gon feel every one of his sixty-odd years and like he’s fifteen again all at the same time. Gangly. All elbows and knees. 

Sometimes Qui-Gon forgets that Obi-Wan can be more than a bit of an adrenaline junkie. He reins it in most of the time, especially around Anakin (or he tries), but here, on Drazkel, gauzy white shirt flying open, synth leather pants, and the dark kohl lining his eyes starting to run, he looks _wild_. No one would mistake him for a Jedi. And that is, of course, the point.

The glitter, Qui-Gon supposes, is a nice touch, but it’s going to be hell to wash off. He had said as much when they were getting ready and Obi-Wan had laughed and smirked and said “I remember.”

Qui-Gon certainly didn’t: there had been no evidence in their refresher or carpet during Obi-Wan’s padawan days, though he knew Obi-Wan went out sometimes with Quinlan and Garen and Bant. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, so he hadn’t asked.

He fights the image of Obi-Wan scrubbing glitter from his chest in the shower. 

Force, maybe one shot of tihaar was too much after all. 

The music continues to pulse and lights flicker. He continues to shuffle; the unusually tight pants are not helping, and he can’t help but feel just a little bit naked in the thin synthsilk tank top. This is probably _good_ for him, to get out of his comfort zone. Jedi robes are nothing if not concealing and sometimes, perhaps, he has grown accustomed to using them as a refuge from his unease. He longs to fold his arms into his sleeves and disappear into the shadows against the wall.

He has found his centre in far more dangerous and distressing places than this. What is a Drazkellian club compared to a collapsed mine, an open battlefield, a ticking bomb?

He inhales, exhales, swallows, scans the Force, checks on the prince, the doorways, the private lounge area where the Xrexus cartel agents are halfway through their bottle service. They still have a few hours of this if their informer is to be believed. 

_Patience_, he tells himself.

‘Relax,’ Obi-Wan mouths, smiling. He looks like he is enjoying himself. That’s all well and good. Part of the cover. Nervous, stilted, stiff dancers would stand out in this crowd.

And that, of course, is what Obi-Wan is trying to tell him. 

He is _trying_, but he’s also stuck and while he doesn’t know why, he also knows it doesn’t matter. He needs help to get unstuck and Obi-Wan is right here, half a foot away, shimmering. He just needs to reach out.

He takes a breath.

At that moment, Obi-Wan catches his wrist and gives him a sympathetic, questioning look. 

Qui-Gon nods. 

And suddenly Obi-Wan is crowding into his space, pressing his sweaty and sparkle-covered chest up against Qui-Gon’s side, arms snaking around his waist to grab ahold of Qui-Gon’s belt and pull his hips forward. Obi-Wan hooks one of Qui-Gon’s knees between his legs, then keeps moving, dancing — _grinding_, a distant part of his brain supplies. 

There’s light but firm pressure in the curve of his lower back. Obi-Wan’s hand is warm, the heat burns through the black synthsilk. 

“Feel, don’t think,” Obi-Wan breathes against his ear. 

Easier said than done, because his thoughts are going into overdrive to keep him from sensing every point of contact, the nervous flutter in his gut, his heart pounding, the way his fingers itch to touch.

_Feel._

Qui-Gon hears his own breath hitch and his hands find Obi-Wan’s waist and then slide up, up, under the pale shirt to press against smooth, firm, damp skin and feel the pulse and swell of muscles moving underneath.

His crotch is perilously close to Obi-Wan’s, and there is a throb and a tingle and Force-fucking-help-him he feels an actual shock when his cock brushes against Obi-Wan’s hip.

The hand on his back steadies him. ‘I’ve got you,’ it says, with ripple of calm.

His fingers press against Obi-Wan’s ribs. ‘Don’t let go,’ they say. Because he feels like he’s freefalling into something unknown and dangerous. 

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

He looks into Obi-Wan’s blue eyes and sees… both? Damn him, the man is grounded and exhilarated at the same time—and oh so fucking beautiful. And then he’s groaning into Obi-Wan’s sweaty hair as the throb in his cock becomes an ache, and Obi-Wan is reaching a hand up into his hair and— 

Oh. _Oh_, Obi-Wan’s lips are smooth and he tastes like rum and his tongue is sliding and teeth nip his lower lip. There's a pause, less than the space of a breath, while his brain shorts out. 

Obi-Wan freezes in his arms. 

Time stops.

And then Qui-Gon’s kissing back, he’s diving into Obi-Wan and he can’t stop and that’s dangerous, forbidden, not just because of the Code, but because it’s Obi-Wan. This is supposed to be a game, a show, a cover, but it’s not. There’s something real, alive, profound, and he shudders with the realization. He knows—he _ knows_—Obi-Wan feels it too because he's beaming as he kisses Qui-Gon, relief and joy radiating from him. The Force ripples with desire and the air between them, what little there is, thrums with possibility.

He can’t deny that he’s moving now. His body is reacting and he doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t quite have control, but Obi-Wan has him and maybe that’s enough for right now because…. Because…. 

He might be a Jedi but he is also a man.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi has held his heart for longer than he can dare to admit.

He can atone for this later, if he must, but he is becoming acutely and painfully aware of the limits of his restraint, not only here on this dance floor on Drazkel, but for years and years and _years_. The Force delivers no warning, no censure…

....and so he...just…gives…in.

Qui-Gon has never taken psychedelics, or uppers, or downers, or deathsticks or spice… but he thinks maybe he can now understand why beings like to get _high_ because if it’s anything like kissing Obi-Wan, the euphoria must be… well...euphoric. Too much to bear and never enough at the same time. 

Obi-Wan grabs his ass and rocks his hips forward. Against his thigh, Qui-Gon can tell the other man is just as hard. It’s another shock, though he knows it shouldn’t be given Obi-Wan’s fervor. But he’s never been this close to Obi-Wan’s cock before. In fact, he’s actively avoided any thought or contemplation of Obi-Wan’s cock, erect or otherwise for nearly twenty years….The instinct to twist his hips to align them hits him with the force of a gravitational pull. 

Qui-Gon slides his hands to Obi-Wan’s waist and grips his hips with bruising strength to keep them from losing the last and most dangerous inch of space. Obi-Wan bucks against him, but makes no move to push past Qui-Gon’s resistance. Instead he drapes his chest against Qui-Gon’s, tilting his hips back. There’s a breath of relief before his lips find Qui-Gon’s neck and he licks a long stripe along his clavicle to his shoulder.

“We...are going...to...talk...about this… later,” Qui-Gon grinds out against Obi-Wan’s ear.

Obi-Wan grunts in response. “Yes. _Talk_,” he moans, his voice muffled against Qui-Gon’s skin.

For a moment, the world falls away and there is only himself and Obi-Wan and the space between them. He has never been so overwhelmed in his life, and it’s thrilling and terrifying. It is rather like being punched in the gut and waking up and somersaulting in mid air all the same time.

Force help them, they have a mission and they cannot…  
—his mouth finds Obi-Wan’s earlobe—  
...afford…  
—kiss—  
...to...  
—nip of teeth—  
...be…  
—suck—  
_distracted_.

He tears himself away with the last tendril of control he has and looks down into Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“The Pykes are moving,” Obi-Wan whispers, referring to the syndicate representatives across the room, and behind him. Obi-Wan’s blue eyes are dark and reflect the glimmering lights overhead. 

“How...?” Qui-Gon croaks.

But Obi-Wan grins and laughs, his chest rising and falling openly, his limbs simultaneously languid and energized. Qui-Gon realizes with wonder and envy and just the tiniest hint of shame that Obi-Wan is in full control and _ready_ (though for what, Qui-Gon can scarcely fathom). 

Obi-Wan pulls him closer. “I’ve been waiting for a long time,” he says against Qui-Gon’s ear, with a solemnity that seems wholly out of place and deeply right. Something in Qui-Gon’s core vibrates in harmony with Obi-Wan’s words and he feels their truth with the same knowing that tells him that suns rise and set, plants grow, planets orbit, beings are born, live and die and join the Force. 

“How long?” Qui-Gon rasps. 

Obi-Wan blinks slowly and gives him an enigmatic smile in response. He places a careful, deliberate kiss on Qui-Gon’s cheek, sealing the moment yet full of promise.

Qui-Gon stares in awe at the man in his arms as the world tilts out of alignment. 

“We have to move,” Obi-Wan answers. “Xrinu will need us.” He entwines his fingers with Qui-Gon’s and dances him in the direction of the incipient encounter.

***

One tense conversation, a few spectacular bluffs, an accidentally tipped hand, a narrowly avoided standoff and several successful arrests later, Qui-Gon finds himself stumbling into their shared quarters in the palace with Obi-Wan only steps behind him.

They are exhausted, sweaty, and humming with adrenaline. The smoke and alcohol of the club cling to their matted hair and torn clothing. Obi-Wan’s eyeliner has formed streaks down his cheeks. The glitter has somehow reached his hair. 

As soon as the door is closed, Obi-Wan’s hands are on Qui-Gon’s face and his back is hitting the wall as Obi-Wan kisses him within an inch of his sanity. 

He can't breathe and he doesn't really _want_ to because it would mean less of Obi-Wan's tongue and hands and chest pressed up against him. The need to get closer is burning his hands, his hips, his cock, which is already straining against the damned pants. He grabs Obi-Wan’s ass, hands sliding over the synthleather that has been driving him mad for _hours_, and lifts him clear off the ground.

Obi-Wan lets out a yelp and clutches at his shoulders as Qui-Gon flips them around, slamming Obi-Wan against the wall with a growl so deep he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Obi-Wan shudders and his pupils are blown, dark and dreamy and drunk on nothing but lust. 

“How long?” Qui-Gon chokes out. 

“Forever,” Obi-Wan whispers against his lips, and wraps his legs around Qui-Gon’s waist and squeezes. There’s no more space between them, no air, no separation, but it’s still not enough, the alignment isn’t—he can feel—but not—where he wants to. 

And then Obi-Wan is twisting and he’s thrusting up and even through the cursed, Sith-damned pants the sensation of Obi-Wan’s hard cock against his own is electric. 

For a second Qui-Gon’s afraid he’s going to come and wouldn’t that be ridiculous. He is a Jedi Master, with the power of the Force and decades of training and experience in _control_, but he can’t stop his body from reacting so completely to Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s growling into Obi-Wan’s mouth, tongue sliding, teeth grazing lips and Obi-Wan is kissing him back fiercely, hands raking lines up and down his back under the synthsilk. 

It’s too much, far too much and when Obi-Wan rips his tanktop down the middle of his back, Qui-Gon nearly loses it for the second time. He grips Obi-Wan around the waist and hauls him across the room to the bed. 

They collapse into each other, a flurry of limbs as they scramble to get each other out of their clothes. Qui-Gon wants to feel every inch of Obi-Wan’s skin against his own smouldering skin, and belts and pants and Force-damned _boots_ are in the _way_.

From beneath him, Obi-Wan tangles his fingers in Qui-Gon’s hair and pulls, sucking on Qui-Gon’s lip as he thrusts his hips upwards so Qui-Gon can drag the squeaking pants over the curve of his ass and finally, blessedly off. 

He stops, stunned and breathless at the sight before him. He has always known Obi-Wan to be a striking man, but he has never seen him like _this_. Obi-Wan is luminous against the dark bed covers, powerful limbs sprawled, muscular chest heaving, his long cock stiff and bright as the copper curls that frame it.

Qui-Gon’s mouth goes dry and his heart hammers in his chest. His own cock is achingly hard. He wrenches his pants and underclothes off. Obi-Wan blows out a breath, apparently pleased. He reaches for Qui-Gon's waist, skimming hands close but not close enough, before sliding fingers up to trace the muscles of Qui-Gon's chest, his touch at once feather-light and solemn.

They lock eyes as Obi-Wan places a kiss above his heart, then slips his arms around Qui-Gon's back and pulls him down, flush on top of him, naked chest to naked chest. The heat is shocking and grounding and Obi-Wan’s erection is hard and leaking against his stomach.

They are cheek to cheek, Qui-Gon’s beard against Obi-Wan’s smooth chin. He can feel Obi-Wan’s eyelashes catch on his own. He cannot quite process what is happening, what is about to happen, but he knows he can’t stop because if he does, their world, duty, the Code, all of it, will intrude and make this impossible and he cannot bear that. Whatever consequences tomorrow brings, he will face them, having experienced the one thing he has never even dreamed of for fear the wanting alone would break them. 

“I want...” Obi-Wan whispers, his voice lower than Qui-Gon has ever heard it. He feels the pitch in his chest and in his gut, vibrating, waking a part of himself long dormant, locked away by duty and honour and the relentless pursuit of _serenity_. 

“Anything,” he hears himself answer. He kisses Obi-Wan’s eyes and forehead, strokes his hair with quiet reverence. He can feel the tension building in both of them, muscles strained, bracing, breath tight. It’s as if the edges of his skin are humming with the strain of keeping him from dissolving.

Obi-Wan tightens his arms around Qui-Gon’s shoulders, fingers digging into his naked back so hard it almost hurts, and keens out a sob. He’s been so strong, so collected, so unbearably fucking calm this whole time, but now he’s shattering underneath Qui-Gon, passion and sorrow and ancient longing cracking through his spectacular shields. The particular kind of grief that comes from the joy of experiencing something so long awaited that the hope of it was nearly extinguished. 

It nearly breaks Qui-Gon’s heart, and in that moment he knows he will do almost anything to give Obi-Wan happiness. 

“Anything,” he repeats, kissing the tears from Obi-Wan’s face, warmth and concern and still other unspeakable things unfurling in his chest. 

“_Inside_,” Obi-Wan chokes, sliding his lips to meet Qui-Gon’s, salt and spit mingling. 

And Qui-Gon is nearly undone for a third time. 

He’s surging forward, kissing Obi-Wan wildly, roughly. He can’t stop his teeth from scraping or his hands from pulling Obi-Wan’s magnificent sweat-soaked hair, or, when Obi-Wan wraps his legs around Qui-Gon's waist and aligns their cocks, from thrusting hard enough to bruise.

Obi-Wan groans as he breaks the kiss long enough to lick his palm and sneak a spit-soaked hand in between them to grasp them both. It's exquisite and nearly unbearable, the feel of Obi-Wan's cock sliding against his, the press of clever fingers. The raw pleasure has him seeing stars and he's not going to last long if he's not careful, nor is Obi-Wan from the sounds he's making. But it’s not enough, not for either of them, because Obi-Wan asked him and they might only get one chance at this and Qui-Gon _will not_ disappoint him. 

He pulls back, gasping and has to brace his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders to keep himself from falling over—and Obi-Wan from chasing more kisses.

He needs the Force now to steady himself because he's so light headed he's wobbling as he sits back. His hands shake as he drags them down Obi-Wan's bare and glittery chest to his hips and lifts. He tastes Obi-Wan's cock first, licking up the underside to the weeping tip and sucking the gleaming head into his mouth while Obi-Wan lets out a shout. He keeps sucking, sliding lips around and over and up and down, until Obi-Wan swats his hand in warning. Instead of releasing his hips, Qui-Gon raises them further and settles Obi-Wan's knees on his shoulders. He watches Obi-Wan's eyes go wide as he huffs out a breath and smiles in delight and disbelief. 

From this angle Qui-Gon can kiss and lick and suck and slide fingers and tongue inside. His vision blurs and his throat tightens and he can feel pinpricks of tears behind his eyes as he dives into Obi-Wan. He wants to taste everything, he wants to give Obi-Wan everything.

And so he does.

He loses himself in salt, soft skin and wiry curls. The smell he knows is Obi-Wan but stronger. Smooth ring of muscle that yields, oh how it yields to his tongue as Obi-Wan writhes and howls.

Louder, when Qui-Gon's fingers find their mark.

"Now! Fuck. I _can't_," Obi-Wan cries.

Reluctantly Qui-Gon slips out, shifts back, licks his hand and then coats his leaking cock and gently lowers Obi-Wan's hips back to the bed.

Obi-Wan keeps his knees bent, legs falling open. He is breathtaking. 

If Qui-Gon weren't so full of lust, he would weep at the trust and adoration shining from the man he's loved and feared to love for decades.

But he—they—can't wait any longer and so he lines his painfully hard cock up against Obi-Wan's entrance and pushes, gently at first, but Obi-Wan is gasping and urging him forward and suddenly Qui-Gon’s inside, all the way, and thrusting as Obi-Wan clenches and chokes on his name.

They fall into a rhythm, instincts taking over. Qui-Gon cannot comprehend this movement. Inside. He is inside Obi-Wan. Pounding into him as Obi-Wan rocks his hips up, pushes back and squeezes Qui-Gon's cock until the heat and pressure white out his vision. He tumbles forward to kiss Obi-Wan, feels his straining cock against his stomach. They are sliding, crashing, hurtling into each other. ‘Closer, closer, deeper, harder’ his body urges and Obi-Wan answers. 

"Qui-Gon, oh please, Force, yes, fuck, fuck, I can't, it's.. you're.. fuck, Qui-Gon, Qui—" 

Blood roars in his ears. He plunges into Obi-Wan, desperate to give him pleasure, joy, love, his heart, his breath, everything. 

He's always thought ecstasy was hyperbole. How can one feel so much that one stands outside one's body? He thought he knew the limits of his own physical sensation.

He did not. 

Qui-Gon’s orgasm hits him with as the force and fire of a meteor hitting the earth. And when his vision clears, the world is irrevocably changed.

They are stamped on each other's skin, permanently imprinted, invisible but nevertheless tangible, real. This is something they can never undo, a threshold they can never uncross, a transformation that is irreversible. There is no _ before _. Not anymore. 

There is only the now of Obi-Wan's heated skin against his, the salt of his tears and sweat against Qui-Gon's lips, the scent of his come, slick between their stomachs. His blue eyes. His breath against Qui-Gon's forehead.

Qui-Gon presses a kiss to Obi-Wan's heart and smooths his temple with his thumb. They lock eyes. Obi-Wan runs tentative fingers along his cheek and jaw. Qui-Gon swallows, squeezes his eyes shut. The tenderness is overwhelming.

Wordlessly they rearrange themselves. Qui-Gon rolls onto his back and shifts upwards on the bed. Obi-Wan's ear and cheek find his chest. He curls his arm around Obi-Wan's shoulder to stroke his hair. Obi-Wan traces patterns on his damp chest, fingertips pausing minutely every time he brushes a scar.

"I had thought, somehow—” Obi-Wan begins. He pauses, takes another breath. “Just sex. I told myself that's all I wanted. That's all I was waiting for. I thought it would be enough."

Qui-Gon's heart clenches at the sound of Obi-Wan's voice breaking. 

"Never," Qui-Gon chokes. "Oh my Obi-Wan," he breaths, overcome. He blinks back tears as he kisses Obi-Wan's forehead. 

Nothing in his vast, galaxy-spanning experience has prepared him for this moment. There is no learning, no wisdom to fall back on. He was never supposed to feel the comfort of Obi-Wan’s naked body tucked against his, nor hear the precious confession in the spaces between Obi-Wan’s words. 

‘What next?' hangs between them. And it is no small or simple thing. The Order’s stance on physical pleasure is liberal enough, but _this_ is something else entirely. And here Qui-Gon will take the lead because whatever else has happened between them, he was Obi-Wan's master once and that is not a bond, not a position, that ever fully dissolves—even here years and parsecs from their old life together.

Obi-Wan's frame has tensed and his fingers have tightened in Qui-Gon's chest hair. The pricks of pain are a welcome lightning rod back to his body. Qui-Gon takes a deep breath and shakes his head. 

"We don't owe them anything. The Council. The Order. They don't need to know," Qui-Gon says with a certainty that only manifests in the words as he speaks them. The truth rings in the Force like a distant bell.

Obi-Wan heaves a ragged breath, nods. 

Qui-Gon sighs, duty-laden and heavy. They will have to part soon. Their transport to Coruscant arrives in few hours. Before then, they will have to don their layers of tunics and robes and resume the never-ending dance of responsibility and service. But they have had this night, and that too is no small or simple thing.

He tips Obi-Wan's chin up so he can see his eyes. "It was a very good cover,” he says, voice strained with forced levity.

Obi-Wan’s eyes soften and his mouth quirks into a sad half-smile. "Yes, I rather think it was."


End file.
